


Holding On to You

by MangoMartini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cunnilingus, Episode: The Abominable Bride, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, POV Molly Hooper, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoMartini/pseuds/MangoMartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If I didn’t know any better, Mr. Holmes,” Molly smiles, “I would think you are trying to take advantage of me.”</p><p>Holmes doesn’t move away. The corners of his lips quirk up into a smile that becomes a laugh that becomes the press of his forehead against hers. She can feel, vividly, the places where his forehead presses against the fringe of the wig. “If I had known that in order to take advantage of you all I had to do was offer you some cocaine, I would have done so years ago.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On to You

**Author's Note:**

> So I have about a million other things I should be working on, but after seeing the special I got this idea in my head and just had to write it down. I've never read any Sherlolly before, so I apologize if it's already been done before or not what y'all are looking for. Either way I really enjoyed writing this, and might have to try my hand at more Sherlolly in the future.

Molly wrinkles her nose at the smell of the room, and then reaches up to press down on her moustache under the guise of covering her nose. It feels secure, and here of all places she knows it doesn’t matter, but the habit is too strong. The _smell_ of this place is too strong--it almost makes her regret even asking for this. It smells sour, like soiled clothes steeped in old, bitter tea and then left out on the windowsill for a week. Debris of what she hopes were once experiments clutters nearly every surface, and Holmes has made no movement to open the curtains. 

There is a fire in the fireplace, but it’s low, mostly embers, and the glow of it mixed with the red of the wallpaper gives a hellish-ambiance to the room. She didn’t expected these rooms to put her on edge like this. She works around dead bodies, for heaven’s sake, but there is a certainty in death, in dead bodies--they’re _dead_. This room has the distinct feel of something sick and dying, caught in a dimly-lit limbo between the two states. 

“I suppose you’re going to say that I should have had the rooms cleaned before having company over,” Holmes says without looking up. He’s sitting in a green armchair, wooden case on the small table next to it, and looking over a dingy sheet of paper covered in barely-legible scribbles. 

“It’s certainly in no respectable shape to see female company,” Molly replies, still using his voice, Martin’s voice. She’s still standing like him, too, at the entrance to the room with her feet apart and shoulders back and doing everything she has to in order to keep _Martin Hooper_ alive. 

Holmes looks back up at her long enough to roll his eyes at her, and then turns back to the paper and the wooden case. It makes Molly wish--not for the first time--that she did not find his petulant demeanor so endearing. “You can take that off, you know,” Holmes says, and Molly isn’t sure what part of he is referring to until Holmes adds, “I imagine it itches.”

Molly walks over to where Holmes is sitting, and watches over his shoulder as he measures out the drug, checks the needles, and compares what he sees with what he wrote down. “I’d really rather not,” she replies, watching his lithe fingers do their delicate work. “You never know when I might be needed again on short notice.” 

It takes a moment, but eventually Holmes hums in agreement. “People do tend to die at the most inconvenient times.”

Of course, Molly knows him well enough to know that inconvenient for Sherlock Holmes means _not as often as I would like_ , whereas inconvenient for her means _when I have my moustache and wig off for the night_. But the idea of talking about it, of talking about Martin like the costume he really is, isn’t something Molly feels comfortable with. So she implements a reliable strategy for shifting the conversation: she asks Holmes a question. “What exactly is it you’re doing?”

And true to form, Holmes’ mouth takes off like a hunted fox, explaining his calculations, his measurements, information on top of information that builds into a boil of white, comforting noise. It isn’t that she _can’t_ understand him, but it’s a balm on her nerves to be able to crawl under this blanket of words. 

But eventually Holmes stops talking. The silence in the darkened room is more oppressive than the smell and the glow of the fire, and so she asks another question. “And you’re sure it’s safe?” She’s heard stories, anecdotes and the like, but the medical reports on the subject varied widely. That was why, after years of hearing Holmes and Dr. Watson bicker about it, she had opted to try it herself. 

“Are you questioning my calculations?” Molly can’t tell if Holmes is actually upset at that idea, or simply pretending to be--probably somewhere in the middle. He’s usually somewhere in the middle. 

“Not your calculations,” Molly replies, voice calm, soft, and light enough that she can feel the depth of Martin’s voice fading away from the edges of her true voice, her true self. She looks away from his hands, at the back of Holmes’ head of slicked-back hair, the edge of his shirt collar, and the thin sliver of exposed skin between the two of them. “Your judgement, maybe, but never your calculations.”

Whatever it was that Holmes was doing, he seems finished with it now. “Dr. Hooper, I have invited you back to my rooms for a night of experimentation with cocaine _at your request_ , and maybe some tea if Mrs. Hudson sees fit to bring any up. If you want sound judgement, I suggest you spend an evening with Dr. Watson.”

Learning how to read Sherlock Holmes was a lot like learning how to read a dead body. Dr. Watson made them both seem so easy in his little tales--or at least he did in the one Molly bothered to read. But the real Sherlock Holmes was never so obvious. He was in so many ways like the bodies that ended up on her table in the morgue: seeking to say something, to be understood, but adamantly refusing to actually _say_ anything. 

And so Holmes’ comment is as clear to her as water in the lungs is a sign of death by drowning. “Now Holmes, you know I find your company vastly preferable to that of Dr. Watson’s.” 

She wants to reach out and touch Holmes’ shoulder, as if he would be able to feel the truth radiating from her skin like heat from a candle. It’s too easy to forget that, under the clutter of the room, that two people used to share these rooms. Molly wonders if she did an autopsy on 221b Baker Street what she might find, if it had a heart she could cut out, weigh, and document, or if Dr. Watson had taken that too. 

But Holmes gives her no clues. Instead he says, “Pull up that chair and unfasten your cuffs. We will need to get started soon if you would like to be in any presentable state tomorrow.”

“I’ve read that hyperactivity is one of the common side-effects of cocaine,” Molly replies, doing as Holmes instructed, “followed by a period of lethargy.” With some careful shoves she managed to rearrange the second armchair in front of Holmes. _This is Dr. Watson’s chair_ , she thinks, _it has to be, just like in the stories_. She almost asks for permission before sitting down, but knows better than to aggravate healing stitches. So Molly sits without asking, legs spread wide so that, close as they were, Holmes’ crossed legs were between hers, another part of the perpetual-facade. 

Holmes nods. “Often, yes. I have had experiences where instead of feeling manic, I felt more calm, but I must say that’s not common. Cocaine is much different than opium, I can promise you that much. Now hurry up and undo your cuffs.”

Molly obeys, the order grating on her less than Holmes’ instructions normally did. This wasn’t her morgue, her field of expertise, and for perhaps the first time in the years they’ve known each other, Molly believes without annoyance that Holmes knows more than she does about this subject. She shrugs off her jacket and rolls up her shirtsleeves, and Holmes takes care of the rest. 

The skill with which his fingers move is an inspiring display. He manages her skin, the needle, and every aspect of the procedure with a practiced grace. And if the places where those graceful hands touch her happen to perk up with goose-flesh, well, it’s just a coincidence. 

“The effects will be nearly instantaneous,” Holmes says, as the needle disappears into her arm, beneath the skin. 

“Are you going to join me?” Molly asks, eyes fixed on the needle. 

Holmes finishes the injection, the process, and then checks the syringe. “If you’re wanting to make a scientific study of it, reason would dictate that one of us remain sober enough to take notes.”

“You did some before I got here, didn’t you?” Molly accuses in a sing-song tone, like one child about to tattle on another, and Holmes doesn’t deny it. 

But Molly doesn’t press the issue. Every ounce of energy in her body is focused on feeling, on being, on experiencing this new sensation. It started in her arm and then radiated outward, a feeling of happiness and success and just _goodness_ like she had never felt before. She felt good, like she had never done anything wrong, could never do anything wrong again. It felt like soaking in a mug of hot cocoa on a snowy day, like a million tiny electric tingles all cheering her name, like love. 

She closed her eyes tight, not ready to deal with what she might see just yet, afraid she wouldn’t be able to handle it and, at the same time, sure she could. Molly fidgets with the arms of the chair and taps her foot, close to vibrating right out of the chair. “I feel like I could swim the Channel.”

“There’s the rub,” Holmes replies, and Molly’s half-ready to start talking again when his fingers appear seemingly out of nowhere and tilt up her chin with a gentle pressure. “Your eyes are dilated.”

Molly blinks rapidly in response. “Is that normal?” she asks, foot still bouncing. Even if it isn’t, Molly can’t find any part of her that would care right now. Everything is too wonderful to be bad. Everything including Holmes’ face. She looks past his lips, his cheekbones, into his eyes to see if she can note the same dilation in Holmes’ eyes, but all she can see is blue. It’s a blue so deep and intense that she can’t think of a name for it. Cerulean? Azure? Indigo? What are the other words for blue?

When Holmes reaches down to touch her wrist Molly realizes two things instantaneously: that Holmes had kept touching her chin up until that moment, and that she had just said her last few thoughts out loud. 

“It’s going to be a struggle,” Holmes says, and Molly knows that if she were given the right colors, she could paint the exact tone of his voice, “but I’m going to need you to keep quiet for a minute while I check your heart rate.”

So Molly clamps her teeth down carefully on her tongue and watches as Holmes rests his fingers on her wrist. She imagines she can see his thoughts counting up, counting her pulse over the span of a minute. She imagines that she can hear it too, the rush of her blood through her veins and the cacophonous way it thrums through her body. 

She can’t help but frown when Holmes finally takes his fingers away from her wrist to make notes on the back of the same piece of paper. “Elevated, but not dangerously so. We should be good. As much as I enjoy seeing you in the morgue, I feel as though I would not enjoy it as much if you were the dead body in question.”

There’s a filter Molly has on her mind and her mouth, like an intricate swatch of lace that only lets through the right words and appropriate thoughts. It’s how she survives, how Martin survives, but for the first time in her life Molly feels as though it’s not there. It’s as if someone has lifted the lace off her mind, and it’s what allows her to ask, “Because I would be dead, or because there would be no mystery in it?”

It seems as though it takes Holmes a year to answer. He’s impossibly still as he thinks, until finally he replies, “Because I would have killed you.”

“So then there would be no mystery in it.” Molly lets her fingers trace intricate patterns on the arms of the chair, swirls and lines that she’s sure would mean something if they would only stay for longer than a moment. 

Holmes says that she can get up and walk around and Molly stands to do so, only for her legs to go out from under her. But it’s not bad falling back into the chair, it’s _hilarious_. “This must be what it feels like to suffer from hysteria,” she muses in between bouts of laughter. “Like this, but in a bad way. A worse way. Does that make sense? Is this what it’s like for you all the time?”

“What?” Holmes replies, like he’s genuinely confused. The idea of Sherlock Holmes being confused just makes Molly laugh more. When he finally seems to understand what she asked, he says, slowly, “Something like this. I am more familiar with the sensations, but even so the experience never ceases to be--”

“Wonderful?” Molly asks, because she can’t see it being anything else. 

Holmes gets a pinched look about his eyes, and a few stray hairs fall free from the oil holding them back. They land next to his eyes, and she wants to reach out and brush them back where they belong. “It never ceases to be an experience,” Holmes finishes. “But the first time will always be the best.”

The fire hasn’t been stoked, but everything in the room seems brighter, better, like each cluttered object is a sacred relic, like the ones brought back from Egypt, all sandy and gold. The walls seemed golden as well, liquid gold and fire instead of wallpaper. But as enthralled as her eyes are with the room’s most minor banalities, it makes her lips itch to not be talking. And so she asks, “Have you ever done this?”

“Cocaine?”

“With someone else,” Molly clarifies. They’re still sitting in the two arm chairs, close enough that she could knock her knees against Holmes’ if she wanted to. But her feet are busy tapping and her knees seem miles away. 

It’s Holmes who moves, uncrossing his impossibly long legs, leaning forward so he can rest his elbows on his thighs and prop up his head with his hands. “No,” he says, and this word even slower than before, long and drawn out like removing someone’s intestines inch by inch, “not like this.”

And there’s something there, like a shape in the fog, and if Molly could only reach out and touch it she’s sure she would know what it is. “Or maybe if I had my scalpel,” Molly begins, trailing off when she realizes she’s begun talking out loud again. Holmes asks her what she would possibly need a scalpel for now, and the concern in his voice with the loose hairs by his eyes and the way his knees are angled is all too much. “I think I would like you to take my pulse again,” Molly asks, offering her wrist up to Holmes. 

She never did her cuffs back up, and the fabric hangs off her delicate wrist with a ravished elegance. “Are you feeling ill?” Holmes asks. “A raise in heart rate could indicate that--”

“I just,” Molly begins, slipping back into Martin’s voice because she wants to be listened to, wants to be understood in this moment and Martin in the only one anyone ever listens to. Even now, Molly feels as though it’s Martin who says, “Holmes, I just want you to take my pulse again.”  
Holmes lifts up away from his knees, and for a moment Molly is worried that he is going to stand up entirely, that maybe she’s pushed too far. But he only untangles his body enough to reach out and grasp her wrist again. He holds it with the same gentleness as before, fingers on her pulse as the time ticks by. “I didn’t notice a substantial change,” Holmes informs her.

And that’s it. He will take his hand away again unless she does something, and right now nothing seems to matter more in the world then Sherlock Holmes absolutely _not_ doing that. So Molly brings her free hand down over Holmes’, so that it’s a pattern of her skin, his and then hers again. “Your touch is so warm,” Molly muses out loud. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

They’ve shook hands before, of course, being professional colleagues. But this is different, and there’s a charge in the air and a look in Holmes’ eyes that says he knows it’s different too. “The average temperature of the human body is thirty-seven degrees Celsius,” Holmes replies. “Though you do feel a little warm.”

Before Molly can protest, Holmes has his hand back, and reaches up toward her face. He brushes the hair of the wig back and out of her face, before resting the back of his hand on her forehead. She tries to look up at the hand, but it’s too close and it blurs in her vision like the fog from before. “Is that normal? Holmes?” Molly presses when he does not immediately reply. 

He’s still there, leaning over and out of his chair with the back of his hand on her forehead. She can’t see them, but Molly can feel one of Holmes’ legs pressed up against hers, can feel the warmth from his body like it was made of a hundred stoked fireplaces. The feeling burrows under her skin and she can feel sweat beginning to pool at the base of her neck and slide down her spine, making her shirt stick to her skin. 

“The average duration of the intoxicating effects from cocaine is exactly half of an hour.” Holmes’ words are soft and so close. Molly can feel them ghost over her lips, her nose, even the false moustache. She keeps her eyes locked on Holmes’ mouth as if she might be able to catch a glance of them leaving his lips. “I injected you roughly five minutes ago.”

This close, Holmes’ face is hypnotizing. It always has been, ever since it and the rest of Sherlock Holmes sauntered into _her_ morgue and demanded to do such depraved things as hit corpses with riding crops. Molly has pages of sketches of it at home, of the sharp juts of his cheekbones, the curve of his shoulders, the way his mouth looks on the rare times that he smiles, bright and alive and--

“Which means that for the next twenty-five minutes, your mind will be in an altered state. I shouldn’t be taking liberties like this with you.” The protest sounds rehearsed, like lines from a play, and Holmes still has not moved away. 

And because she lost her filter at the first touch of the needle, Molly replies with, “If you were married, you’d have someone to take liberties with. Liberties,” Molly repeats, giggling. “That’s a fun word to say.”

She hopes that Holmes will laugh too, can picture the two of them on the floor laughing at the word _liberties_ until her high runs out. But that’s not what happens. Instead, Holmes blinks those impossibly-blue eyes slowly and sadly. “Getting married is not quite as easy as Watson makes it look.”

The bright red world feels like it has shrunk down around them now, into a sweaty silk cocoon. Molly laughs, cuts herself off when she hears how loud it is, and then laughs again, quieter. She doesn’t want to disturb the cocoon. “Of course it is. I see men do it all the time. And you’re famous,” Molly sings, because that world always makes Holmes’ nose and upper lip scrunch up in a way she still hasn’t gotten over seeing. “All you would have to do is ask.”

“And yet here I am,” Holmes replies once his features have smoothed back out. He finally moves his hand, tucking the hair of Molly’s wig behind her ear and then letting his hand rest there, cupping the back of her neck. “Here I am, sharing my cocaine with you.” 

There’s nothing funny about this moment. There’s nothing at all amusing about the way Holmes is leaning forward, one hand on her neck and the other hovering near her hand as if didn’t dare touch. Or in the way he’s looking at her, in that intense glare he saves for dead bodies and, occasionally, Dr. Watson. And there’s certainly nothing funny about the way her her breathing stutters, or the way her heart would have raced if it was at all capable of going any faster. 

And yet Molly laughs anyway, high-pitched and girlish in a way she hasn’t laughed in years, a true and proper _giggle_. “If I didn’t know any better, Mr. Holmes,” Molly smiles, “I would think you are trying to take advantage of me.”

She expects Holmes to pull away, to throw up the walls he usually keeps around himself in abundance. Maybe once he does, Molly thinks, she will get up and try walking again, maybe jumping, before the urge leaves her. She must only have about twenty minutes left. 

Except that Holmes doesn’t move away. The corners of his lips quirk up into a smile that becomes a laugh that becomes the press of his forehead against hers. She can feel, vividly, the places where his forehead presses against the fringe of the wig. “If I had known that in order to take advantage of you all I had to do was offer you some cocaine, I would have done so years ago.”

It’s the cocaine, it has to be, that makes the weight of what Holmes just said feel as light as common knowledge. Because despite everything she had ever learned about this man, this detective, she had never fathomed _that_. Their relationship was built bickering over bodies, arguing about the causes of lacerations and the one time she smacked him across the back of the head when he asked her to make him tea. 

So she asks what he means by _years_ , because this close to him, high off his cocaine, it seems improper not to ask. 

“Since the second time I met you.” Holmes moves his hand behind her neck slightly so that he can draw circles on the nape of her neck. The fingers get close, but they never touch the edge of the wig, leaving the illusion alone. 

“Second?” The giggles have stopped now, and if Holmes’ face was not so close to hers Molly would have closed her eyes, content as a kitten. 

Holmes makes a deep, rumbling noise in his throat that sounds like an agreement. “I didn’t think I would need to remember you after the first time,” he goes on to say, each word brushing over her lips like the tip of a down feather. “But you looked at me like you knew the truth to every lie I had ever told.”

Molly does close her eyes at that, entering into a dark world made up of only the fingers on the back of her neck and pressing warmth against her forehead. Distantly, she can hear her heart beating out a constant cacophony, but even that goes silent when she feels Holmes’ other hand finally land down on her own. There’s a smile on her lips still as she says, “I never read about that in your stories.”

“Well,” Holmes says, and Molly can feel him tilt his head just slightly, “you’ll have to take that up with the writer, I’m afraid. He’s not the most observant.”

She opens her eyes just in time to feel Holmes’ lips against hers. It’s a soft, undemanding press like a question. And for a moment Molly doesn’t answer, because it’s her question too, because she can feel the way it tugs at her moustache. 

Holmes pulls away--she must have waited too long. “I,” he begins, and Molly’s eyes dart to look at his mouth, his eyes, the crease in his brow, “I apologize.”

It takes a moment for Molly to understand that what sounded like _I love you_ was actually _I apologize_. But the meaning is the same. “I didn’t think you knew how to apologize,” Molly tells him, but it’s half-lost as she leans forward and presses her lips back against his. 

They sit like that and just kiss, Holmes with his hands on her neck and hand, Molly using her free hand to grip the arm of the chair as if she would float away if she dared to let go. Each time their lips touch it pricks at her skin like lightning, like a thousand invisible scalpels. Molly pulls back slightly, feeling like she can’t get enough air, but Holmes’ lips chase hers until she’s leaning back in the chair and Holmes’ hand has gone from her neck to her shoulder, holding her in place. 

By the time Holmes’ lips leave her own to journey down to her neck, Molly is gasping for breath, head back and eyes squeezed close. “Is my taking advantage of you to your satisfaction?” Holmes asks, nipping at her neck in a way that makes Molly gasp out a squeak. 

With her free hand she reaches out to grasp at the back of Holmes’ head, burying her fingers in the slick hair like she has wanted to do countless times before. “You’re being quite improper, Mr. Holmes,” she whispers, like it’s a secret for just the two of them. “I certainly hope this is not how you treat all your guests.”

It’s a joke, a continuation of the ruse, but anxiety is undeniable. It must be, because Holmes abandons her neck to look her in the eye. “Had we the time,” Holmes begins, but whatever he imagines they would do if they had more time, if Molly didn’t need to possibly become _Martin_ at the drop of a hat, is lost in the way Holmes’ mouth puckers into a frown. “You know I’m not the type to ever marry, Hooper.”

It should be scandalous. Regardless of the pants she wears now, Molly never could shake her corseted upbringing. But the idea of marriage, of giving up Martin so that Molly might be able to ascend to the position of angel of some house, seems less and less appealing with each passing day. Any desire for a life like that faded with each new examination, each smile and nod of praise over her work, until that was all she wanted. 

That and _this_ , this insufferable man who was now looking at her like he expected her to balk. And maybe there was someone else that had, someone who had even sat in this same chair and received the same warning and took it to heart, someone who better adhered to the rules of reality. Someone who didn’t reply with, “I don’t recall ever asking you to marry me.”

Whether or not it’s the right answer is irrelevant, because it’s the answer that makes Holmes kiss her again. Tentative touches become rougher, and Molly tightens her grip on Holmes’ hair, reaching out to grasp his arm with her other hand. The coarse fabric of his coat bunches under her hand, and she feels Holmes shift his weight forward, sure he must be near to toppling out of his chair, but beyond the point of caring. 

Holmes’ hand on her shoulder wanders down, thin fingers search and pressing against her bound breasts, a growl of annoyance sneaking out past both of their lips. She’s a moment away from just saying _damn it all_ and forgoing the costume, work or no, when that clever hand works it way down her chest to her hip, then her thigh, where it kneads her clothed leg dangerously close to the junction of her thigh. The shivers that shake her spine pool into a heat that permeates from the base of her back forward, and Molly can’t help but lift her hips up at his touch. She spreads her legs wider, until her knees are pressed against the arms of the chair.

His touch moves farther up at an agonizingly slow pace, inching its way toward the V of her legs, until he can rest his hand against the already-damp fabric there. Holmes’ hand still, and then so does the rest of him, until his lips are still against hers and all Molly can do is shake. So when Holmes says against her lips that he has something in mind he would like to try, the word, “Yes,” comes out of Molly’s mouth as desperate as a prayer. 

Molly is expecting more touches after that, the insistent pressing of fingers against her, maybe more of his lips on her neck. But Holmes offers none of that. Instead, he pulls back, examines the floor between her legs as if checking to make sure it is really there, and drops down to his knees. 

“Good God,” Molly gasped, not wanting to move or even blink until she took in the entirety of the scene in front of her: Sherlock Holmes, pupils blown and hair mussed, on his knees in front of her as she sits, legs wantonly spread, in Dr. Watson’s chair. She felt hyper-aware of the curves of her knees, the way her feet were pressed flat against the floor and the slight part of her lips, raw from kissing. 

Holmes runs his hands down the insides of her thighs, against the seams of her trousers, like he’s testing them, testing her. “I meant what I said about liberties,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of her left knee. 

He doesn’t ask for permission but Molly nods anyway, keeping her hands firmly on the arms of the chair as Holmes rucks up her shirt as far as her vest would allow. The air against her exposed abdomen feels cold against her overheated skin, but it’s nothing compared to how he uses those long, clever fingers to undo her trousers. Each touch reverberates through her skin like ripples in a pond, sending out shock waves of shivers that serve only to intensify the empty ache between her legs. 

Holmes hooks his fingers on the waistband of her trousers, and Molly sucks in a breath as she lifts her hips up for him. The slow drag of the course fabric down her legs is torture and Molly squirms through it all, digging her nails into the upholstery and fearing her fingers might go numb. 

She has to bring her legs together to get the trousers off completely, but Holmes directs the proceedings with the skill of a conductor, slipping the wool fabric down and over each shoe-clad foot, until they are nothing more than a dark puddle on the floor. The shoes come off next, then the socks, each with the same softness of touch and the same utter silence. 

When all that’s left are her white undergarments, Molly’s head is spinning, her chest heaving and the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears so deafening she fears her eardrums may explode. But then Holmes has his fingers back up on her hips, that dark and hungry look in his eyes like she’s something almost as good as a case, and the entire world seems to still as the undergarments join her trousers on the floor, revealing the thin, pale expanse of her spread legs. The undeniable smell of her arousal is a sharp tang in contrast to the musk of the room, and for a moment Molly considers apologizing for this unappealing side effect of arousal before she sees Holmes lick his lips. 

“I must ask for your discretion,” Holmes says, fingers on the tops of her thighs, “in regards to any auditory reactions you may have.”

“Then I must ask,” Molly replies, pausing to gasp at the first press of Holmes’ lips against the bare skin of her thigh, “for something to have an auditory response _about_.”

But the last word is caught up in a squeaking sound as Holmes kisses his way up her thigh, closer and closer and even though she’s watched him move closer, the first touch of his lips against her cunt is so intense that it makes Molly’s head fall back, eyes closed and mouth open in a silent scream. She can feel every breath Holmes exhales, cool and forbidden between her legs. It’s too much and too strange until she feels Holmes’ _tongue_ against her clit. 

The noise that comes out of her mouth is high-pitched and strangled before Molly bites her lip, wincing. Holmes shifts slightly, rubs circles on her thighs with his thumbs and it’s so nice that it takes her just a moment longer to realize that he’s quietly _laughing_ at her. She can feel the breaths of it against her sensitive skin, and opens her eyes to reach down and swat the back of Holmes’ head. “Insufferable. Absolutely--”

Whatever else Molly had to say on the subject was lost as Holmes continued, clever tongue teasing at her clit with the same intense focus Holmes puts toward anything that captures his interest. The hand she had hit Holmes with became tangled in his hair, grasping desperately at the short, dark strands as she struggled to keep every desperate, keening noise from escaping past her lips. 

The shudders that wrack her body move from her heaving chest to her hips. She cants them up, can’t help it, and is ready to move her hands back to the chair to help hold herself down better when it’s Holmes that moans, and _oh_ was that a sound. Molly leaned back in the chair, hips moving forward so that her own feet were pressed up against the feet of the chair, legs taut as bowstrings.

It’s amazing until it’s not enough, and Molly is tugging at Holmes’ hair trying to get his attention, hoping that when he looks up he will be able to deduce that it she wants so that she doesn’t have to say the words herself. And he does look up, mouth shiny wet and eyes dilated, breathing heavily and still managing to curl his lips into a smirk. “More complaints, Hooper?” he asks, and the sarcasm of the words is lost in just how wrecked Holmes’ voice is, how raw. 

“I need--” she tries, but she doesn't have the vocabulary for what she wants, so she looks down with pleading eyes instead.

The smirk remains as Holmes’ eyebrows shoot up. “ _Oh_.”

He adjusts his position slightly, at first only going back to soft lick and flicks of his tongue, even less than before, and Molly whines from the frustration of it all. It’s so distressingly not enough that she doesn’t notice the soft slide of Holmes’ hand until he has two fingers circling the outside of her cunt. The wordless whine turns into an emphatic, “Yes, dear god yes,” as Holmes slowly penetrates her, fucking her on his fingers in tandem with his tongue, and _there_ it is. 

Molly can feel her toes curling and her breathing quicken, world reduced only to sensation of Sherlock Holmes on his knees and fucking her with unparalleled intensity. And then there it is, that curling feeling of heat in her belly, the way her legs tighten and her eyes squeeze shut like if she even opens them for a moment, she’ll lose it. She wants to give some sort of warning, some sort of acknowledgement, but her mouth won’t cooperate. 

The orgasm hits her in shuddering waves, all muscle contractions and silent screams as Holmes’ doesn’t relent but fucks her through it, tongue never leaving her sensitive clit and fingers never slowing until her body sags back down. Only then does Holmes pull back, leaving Molly slumped on the chair, eyes closed and gasping. She can feel every bit of moisture on her skin, from the places to where sweat has built up under her wig and behind her moustache to the wet patch underneath her.

When she opens her eyes a moment later, Holmes is back sitting in his chair, staring at her. He must have wiped his mouth off, Molly notes, but there’s still a wet sheen to his lips and a hungry look in his eyes. “If you find yourself spent,” Holmes says in a voice that implies he clearly is not, “Do not feel inclined to assist.”

There's a thread of tension that Molly can feel underneath the bliss of her high. She lets it lurk there as she catches her breath, a circling predator, all too aware of Holmes’ tension and the way his hand lingers near the bulge in his trousers. 

In a moment of sudden clarity, she thinks about the scene the two of them must make now. Her, half-undressed and covered in sweat, moustache still on, sprawled out on the armchair like a drunkard. And then Holmes, hair mussed wound tight and seemingly waiting for permission to pleasure himself, despite the fact that, if Molly kissed him, she would taste herself on his tongue. 

But then it's Molly's turn to laugh. 

“And leave you to handle yourself in such a state?” she asks, voice sounding not her own. There’s a hoarseness to it she wasn’t expecting, thin cracks like lines through porcelain. “What a terrible thing to suggest. You wound me, Holmes.” Molly sits up, leans forward, can feel where the multiple bodily fluids have stuck her skin to the chair. 

Holmes huffs but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he begins to unfasten his trousers, and Molly watched with fascination as Holmes takes out his cock and begins to stroke himself slowly, eyes fluttering shut at the rhythmic movement, the first time he’s touched himself all evening. 

_This_ , Molly thinks, _is what that illustrator should draw_. Holmes is gorgeous this way, and spent as she is Molly can’t just watch. The image of Holmes spilling into his own hand, so debauched and in his place of work, is an enticing idea, but Molly can think of a better one. 

“Put your legs together,” Molly orders, easily dropping her voice down to sound like Martin. She doesn’t think much about it at first, orders just roll off the tongue better when spoken at that lower register, but she doesn’t miss the way it seems to send a shiver through Holmes. 

“Are you just going to instruct?” It seems like a complaint, like it could be one of the other millions of complaint she’s heard from him over the years, but judging from the way his hand doesn’t stop moving, it doesn’t seem like an idea Holmes would be entirely opposed to. 

Molly shifts her shoulders and peels her legs off the chair. “Another time, perhaps,” she says as she stands, looming over Holmes, taller than him for the moment. Before any of her carefully learned mortality can talk her out of it, Molly moves to sit over Holmes, her thin legs wedged between his and the arms of his chair. She steadies herself with her hands on Holmes’ shoulders. “I thought I might join you,” Molly says, as if she’s joining him for afternoon tea. 

For a moment, from the way Holmes tenses under her, Molly thinks she’s done something wrong. She’s just about ready to get up, to back off, when she realizes that she has rendered Sherlock Holmes _speechless_. His mouth is open, and he’s looking down at where his cock is resting against her wrinkled vest and shirt as if he can’t quite comprehend it. 

“How good of you,” Holmes chokes out, like each word is physically painful. Though judging from the way Holmes’ cock is leaking against her vest, they just might be. 

Slowly, in case Holmes wants to stop her, Molly moves a hand down from his shoulder to his cock, wrapping a hand around it and stroking, testing out the weight of it, the length, feeling how hot and _alive_ Holmes is under her hand. “Had we the time,” Molly says, echoing Holmes’ sentiment earlier. Whether it’s the orgasm or the cocaine leaving her system Molly doesn’t know, but it gives here a serene sense of calm, like the eye of a storm. “I’d be interested to see just how long I could draw this out.” She punctuates her words with soft strokes of Holmes’ cock, knows their not enough to do much but loves the way they make the man squirm under her. 

“Damn it, Hooper,” Holmes curses. His hands move, but only to the small of Molly’s back, pushing up her and vest enough so that he can get his fingers on her skin and press in, like he’s urging her on. 

“How long I could keep you on edge,” Molly continues, bold from the debauchery of it all. She lifts herself up, leans forward, and guides Holmes’ cock into her cunt. “I’ve always wanted to hear you beg,” she says, sinking down on his length as Holmes watches, rapt. “Really beg,” Molly continues, as she sits on Holmes’ lap, the entirety of his cock inside her. “I bet you’d do it so well,” she adds, lifting her hips up and then back down, gasping at the sensation of finally being filled so completely, “once you had a little practice at it.” 

His grip on her back tightens, and she can feel nails dig into her skin. “You’ve got a mouth on you, Hooper,” Holmes says as she builds up a rhythm and makes his words stutter. “Maybe I’d be better off if I gagged you.” 

Molly moans at the idea, speeding up her movements knowing all Holmes can do is hold on and take it. He tries to thrust his hips up to meet here but it's futile; he's trapped under the weight of her body and the bracket of her naked legs. She can feel the fabric of his trousers against the inside of her thighs as she writhes on his cock, the wool reddening her sensitive skin. 

“Your riding crop,” Molly groans, burying her head in the crook of Holmes’ neck. He smells like musk, tobacco and sweat and it all smells like _sex_ yes. He turns his head, mouth finding the exposed skin of Molly’s neck, and bites hard. The suddenness of it causes her to whine, but Holmes only does it again, as if he has to hold on to her skin with his hands and teeth. 

They're silent together for a moment, lost in the feeling of it all and gasping for breath. For a moment she thinks Holmes’ so far gone he's babbling, until she realizes it's not gibberish but _Molly_ repeated over and over again like a secret litany for her, to her. 

It's the sound of her own name from Holmes’ mouth that makes her come again, frantic and jerking and determined to fuck Holmes until he demanded she stop. He comes not much later, spilling into her as he moans half her name and writes the other half of in the skin behind her ear with his teeth. 

Molly lifts her hips up so that Holmes’ spent cock pulls out of her, but she doesn't pull away. There's a heaviness in her limbs and a stirring coldness in her core that come together to make the idea of moving away from this spot, this man, utterly abhorrent. At any rate Holmes has not taken his hands away from her back, nor has he stopped nuzzling the spots on her neck she’s sure have already formed into red-purple contusions, damaged blood vessels that will act as a testament to their time together for as long as they last. She’ll have to adjust her wardrobe. 

Holmes tries to speak, but his voice is no better than the croak of a frog. He clears his throat and tries again. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and at first Molly thinks he means after the sex until she remembers he means after the _cocaine_ , because that injection seems as though it happened a lifetime ago. 

“Mmm, tired,” Molly replies, though the noise Holmes makes in the back of his throat as a response leads her to elaborate. “General fatigue, perhaps a touch of dehydration, pulse slowly returning to normal--nothing to worry about. Give me a moment and something to drink and I’ll be on my way.”

 _Because that has to be why he asked_ , Molly thinks, mind sluggish but still clearer than before. But Holmes’ hands are still on her, rubbing the swell of her exposed arse. “If you’d like,” Holmes yawns. “But the streets of London are unforgiving at best, and would be doubly so to a gentleman not on his guard.”

Molly allows herself a soft smile and to relax into Holmes’ touch. “Why Mr. Holmes, are you asking me to stay?”

Holmes bristles under her, but does not stop his ministrations. “I just don’t think ‘The Tale of the Missing Morgue Director’ has much of a ring to it, do you?”

It’s a lie. Molly can feel the dishonesty seep out of Holmes’ skin and into her own like an infection, an invisible wall between them that can’t be torn down because it holds up the entire structure, and so she can’t knock it down. Instead, Molly takes in a deep breath, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of Holmes’ sweat-slick skin and wondering if he can feel her moustache on his skin, what he thinks of it, if she’d have to do a biopsy of his brain to ever know the truth. Either way, it would have to wait. 

“Not at all,” Molly agrees. “I guess I can rest here for a little while,” she concedes, as if she’s actually conceding something and not getting exactly what she wants, what she hopes Holmes wants as well. 

Holmes pauses and smacks his lips together before speaking again. “I may,” he starts, fingers finally pausing, “need to stay with you. To keep an eye on you, you understand, in case there are any adverse effects of our experiment today that may render you in need of assistance.”

They’ll need to move eventually. They’ll move and then they’ll dress and they’ll go back to work and have to, at least there, act as if nothing happened. Because what would the morgue be without Martin Hooper and Sherlock Holmes bickering over a dead body while Dr. Watson shakes his head in annoyance? 

But for now they’re here, pressed together in the same armchair, breathing in each others air and languidly content in the dying fire-light of the messy room. And despite the cramps in her legs, the itch of drying sweat and the rawness of her thighs, Molly finds herself wholly happy. 

“Of course, Holmes. Stay with me as long as you like. I insist.”


End file.
